Walking now from the cop cruise, bandaged but still seeping puss and blood and blacktop, you turn and thank smoking tire marks in the road. Looking at your house, you figure the night ain’t finished, so you take a walk, then a cab, then a subway to Gay’rhhag, ‘cause night time there never looked brighter. Still in sweatpants, you weasel through the bathroom window, baring witness to a penis-sizing competition, and money is totally involved, so with your own blood you scrawl $PL▲$H ¢LUB 7 on the side of a stall, but nobody notices. Walking up the stairs and into the dark/flashing room, and bodies are grinding atop of an aquarium dance floor stuffed with colored fish and neon seahorses.
“Didn’t know this was Karaoke Night,” you say to some strangers and they stare directly at your sweats/package. They point at the bar, and you head toward a sign that has “Tonight’s Special: Sweat,” and order a sweat, which looks like dirty water, but tastes like a Long Island iced-tea made with more liquor. One sip turns the club into a psychedelic meltdown: fish are eating the seahorses, dancers are mending their bodies with each other, everyone isn’t staring, your bandages come off like rotten fruit skin, and being carried around the club above everyone’s heads is like floating until you’re tossed out into daylight and it’s five hours later and 30 degrees hotter. Laying in front of the club, people gawking, you tell them to move along, but really they’re trying to bandage you back together and call the paramedics. The puddles of blood now reflect the sunlight into your eyes, and you lay in them, placing shades on your face, yawning at the nearing sirens.
• $PL▲$H ¢LUB 7: http://splash-club-7.bandcamp.com